


Not Ireland

by sensitivebore



Series: Lady Lights [7]
Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-14
Updated: 2013-02-14
Packaged: 2017-11-29 06:01:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/683667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sensitivebore/pseuds/sensitivebore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Elsie and Sarah, and jealousy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not Ireland

The girl brings in the pile of neatly folded tea towels, sheets, pillowslips, bungs them onto the counter with a thump. Smiles her easy, wide grin, tucks a lock of flaming red hair behind her ear.

Elsie sniffs. Makes her wait until she's done wiping the counter top to address her, gets the buff-colored envelope with her pay in it. They hire the washing out during the summer; there's work enough to be done in the shop with the till ringing until late in the evening that they can't spare the time for it, and it's a small luxury they can afford during the good months. She nods to the girl, forms a little polite smile.

"Very good, thank you, Kathy."

Elsie takes the basket of laundry and begins to turn away, but the high musical voice stops her, all pert Irish charm and sass.

"Is Sarah about, by any chance?"

The older woman stiffens, blinks once or twice, turns back slowly. Sarah?

"Miss O'Brien is busy at the moment. Is there something you need?"

Kathy shrugs, smiles, shakes her head. "Nae, just wantin' to say hallo." Before she can leave, however, Sarah comes out of the kitchen; she's lovely, flushed with heat from the oven, a bit of flour in her dark hair, lips pink and pretty.

"I'm right here, for pity's sake, ye' act like I'm in another country. Hallo, Kathy." Sarah smiles and collects her packet of cigarettes and matches from under the counter. "I was just on my way out for a fag."

Elsie watches them leave together, laughing, breezy, and she slams into the bedroom, thumps the clothes onto the bed. Goes about sorting and putting them away. Slams the drawers, the closet door. Throws the basket into its customary place with a loud crash.

She fumes silently.  _Sarah_. Who did the little chippie think she was, calling her  _Sarah_? Kathy is twenty-five, twenty-six at the most, all high breasts and young, unlined face, all tight bottom and lazy stroll.

And she likes her Sarah just a little much for Elsie's taste. She's always lingering, hanging about in the shop, leaning on the glass case in her simple calico dress and apron, all of that bright red hair flaming around her face. Elsie jerks open another drawer and gets out fresh linens for the bed, begins stripping it and remaking it with tight corners, crisp sheets. They talk about _Ireland_ , Sarah says, talk about her brothers, talk about coming here to work. What's there to talk about, Elsie wants to know. She's met other Scottish women in her time here and she's never felt the need to — well,  _flirt_  the way Kathy does. Simper and twist her hair around her fingers and stand too close. Calling the same country home doesn't require that, Elsie is fairly certain.

The counterpane snaps, falls perfectly over the bed. She fluffs the pillows with angry hands, throws them back against the headboard. Slams the bedroom door as she goes back to the kitchen where Sarah has returned, humming a little song, beating eggs in a bowl. Elsie pointedly ignores her smile, her tilt of the head that means she wants her to come over for a kiss. Just pulls out her chair at the table, drops into it, pours a cup of tea. Slams the teapot down. Stirs with a crash of spoon against china.

" — are ye' mad at me for something?"

Drops the spoon in the saucer with a clang.

"No."

Opens her book, slams the cover back against the tablecloth.

"Ye' are. What'd I do?"

Elsie reads, ignores the question. Turns the pages with miffed little flips, sips her cooling tea. After a few minutes, she can hear Sarah washing the bowl, putting the batter in the cool box to sit until morning. It's growing late and it's about the time they retire to their sitting room, cozy on the love seat, to read or talk or sew. To neck sometimes when Sarah is laughingly persistent and Elsie is feeling calm and especially pretty.

She shuts her book, stands up. There'll be none of that business tonight, that's for certain.

"I'm going to bed now."

Elsie flounces off and Sarah turns off the gaslight, makes to follow with a grin, knowing she can talk her out of anything, knowing all too well that all it usually takes is a mean little smile and hard hands on soft hips, a nip of teeth in a certain place on her lover's shoulder, and all is forgotten, all is forgiven.

She's met at the door, however, with her pillow tossed at her head.

"No. Out."

The door is shut firmly in her face.

Sarah raises her hands, drops them. Shoves her pillow under her arm and knocks. She's locked it, of course.

"Aw, darlin', c'mon. What'd I do?"

No answer.

"Els, ye' haven't thrown me out the bed since I put out a fag in a tea saucer that once. At least tell me why you're puttin' me out. At least let me have my nightdress!"

The door opens and a fall of white fabric drops over her head. It closes again, locks.

Sarah wanders down the hall to the sitting room, cursing and muttering. Trips over her nightgown dragging on the floor, curses again. She beds down on the tiny sofa and crushes the pillow over her face to block out the sun that will stream through the curtains in the morning.

Elsie sleeps fitfully, brooding, waking to cry a few stupid, jealous tears. Cries a few more at the thought of Sarah on the sofa and gets up. She won't go and get her, but she'll unlock the door. Then she doesn't have to explain or talk about it, she'll just unlatch it and go back to sleep.

She does. A few hours later, however, she's woken by Sarah quietly climbing into bed, climbing between her naked legs which are warm to the touch. It's a hot night and at some point her nightdress has ridden up around her hips, leaving her bare, pretty in the very faint dawn light. Her lover, she sees, has shucked her nightgown completely off and is wearing nothing but that golden peach skin that Elsie so loves to touch, to kiss.

Sarah takes her hands, pulls her into a sitting position until they're facing one another, legs interlaced, heels pressing gently into each others hips. Elsie lets her, but turns her face sulkily away, studies the wall.

"Darlin', what is it? This ain't fair, ye' know." Rubs her toes slowly along the rucked fabric. Elsie slaps at her foot.

"Go play your little foot games with Kathy." She clamps her lips shut but it's said now, it's out and she can't take it back, and here she had never meant to say anything. She knew how ludicrous it must sound, how childish, how utterly ridiculous for a woman her age to be so furiously jealous of a girl young enough to be her daughter, but — Elsie swallows hard. She is so young, and so lovely, and her hair has no silver and her eyes are still tight and unlined. Her curves are still firm and in a completely difference place than they'll be in another twenty years, thirty.

She remembers when she used to look like that.

Sarah is laughing — though clearly trying not to — and sliding away, kneeling, crawling up close and taking her face in her hands, kissing her. Kissing her over and over, laughing and kissing her.

"Ye' are a daft cow, do you know that? Out of your mind if you're worried about me and  _Kathy_. She's like a little sister, that's all. God, I forget she's even a  _girl_  half the time 'cause she acts like one of my brothers. Out of your  _fuckin_ ' mind."

Elsie tenses, draws a sharp breath. It's not a word that Sarah uses frequently or even often, but — her cheeks redden and she bites her lip guiltily.

_But she loves it when she does._

The laughter and the relief in Sarah's voice have done their magic, have dispelled all of the foolishness her mind had been spinning, and the kisses have — she always does this, Elsie thinks helplessly, she always manages to —

Her fingers slide over Sarah's body, trailing over the thighs, the curve of bottom, the dip of the lower back. She always does this, the kissing and —

Elsie whispers to her and Sarah's grin grows, hardens, her hands tighten around her lover's shoulders, slide up to cup her face again and rain those punishing kisses on the tender mouth. Begins whispering between them.

"Ye' want me to tell ye', don't you? Tell you that I'm going to —" She pushes Elsie back against her pillow so she's looking down at her, covers her body with her own nakedness. " — what is it, ye' want me to tell you what again?"

The red deepens and Elsie refuses to meet her eyes, instead just focuses on all of that velvet skin on top of her.

Sarah catches her hands, pins them down, rocks her hips hard once or twice and smiles at the strangled gasp, the little moan. Stops immediately.

"Tell me, darlin.' Say it. What do you want me to do?"

Suddenly she's falling, turning, and somehow Sarah is on her back now and Elsie is astride her hips, holding her wrists in a surprisingly strong grip.

"Say it, Sarah O'Brien. Say it or I'll get up and leave.  _You say it_."

Sarah smirks, pushes up with her pelvis, but Elsie is too quick for her and raises just a bit, just enough that no contact is made. The smirk fades and the grey eyes widen a bit, her breath comes harder as she sees she's serious, she's  _dominating_  her, she's _taking_  her and, well, Sarah has no compunction about saying exactly what she's thinking. She's not bound by the same stiff rules of propriety that still hold her woman's tongue locked in place sometimes.

"Fuck me. Jus' — darlin',  _fuck_  me."

Later, as they are lying tangled in one another's arms and legs, as Sarah nestles her head against a smooth bare shoulder, as her breathing slows enough to talk, as her body stops shaking enough for her to put her scattered wits back together, she curves her hand over Elsie's hip and asks in a tiny, ragged voice.

"Where'd ye' learn  _that_?"

It's the other woman's turn to smirk now, to smile smugly, and she shrugs a little, strokes the dark hair falling over her breast.

"Not Ireland."


End file.
